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THE 

CLINK 

O F T H E 

I C 



AND OTHER POEMS 
WORTH READING 



BY 

EUGENE FIELD 



CHICAGO 

M. A. DONOHUE &- CO. 

407-429 DEARBORN ST. 



^<=>^^^'^ 
c^...^ 



[library of C0Nvari£3S 

i Two Copies Hee«iv6C5 ■■•] 

DEC 12 VdQJ 

60FY B. 



CoPYRICxHT 
1905 

By M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 



INTRODUCTION, 



From whatever point of view the character oi 
Eugene Field is seen, genius — rare and quaint 
presents itself is childlike simplicity. That he 
was a poet of keen perception, of rare discrimina- 
tion, all will admit. He was a humorist as deli- 
cate and fanciful as Art emus Ward, Mark Twain, 
Bill Nye, James Whitcomb Riley, Opie Read, or 
Bret Harte in their happiest moods. ' Within 
him ran a poetic vein, capable of being worked 
in any direction, and from which he could, at will, 
extract that which his imagination saw and felt 
most. That he occasionally left the child-world, 
in which he longed to Hnger, to wander among 
the older children of men, where intuitively the 
hungry listener follows him into his Temple of 
Mirth, all should rejoice, for those who knew him 
not, can while away the moments imbibing the 
genius of his imagination in the poetry and prose 
here presented. 

Though never possessing an intimate acquaint* 
anceship with Field, owing largely to the dis- 
parity in our ages, still there existed a bond of 



4 INTRODUCTION 

friendliness that renders my good opinion of him 
in a measure trustworthy. Born in the same 
city, both students in the same college, engaged 
at various times in newspaper work both in St. 
Louis and Chicago, residents of the same ward, 
with many mutual friends, it is not surprising 
that I am able to say of him that "the world is 
better off that he lived, not in gold and silver or 
precious jewels, but in the bestowal of priceless 
truths, of which the possessor of this book be- 
comes a benefactor of no mean share of his 
estate." 

Every lover of Field, whether of the songs of 
childhood or the poems that lend mirth to the 
out-pouring of his poetic nature, will welcome 
this tmique collection of his choicest wit and 
humor. 

Charles Walter Brown. 

Chicago, January, 1905. 



Content0, 

The Clink of the Ice.. . .' ^ 25 

SisTER*s Cake 29 

Crumpets and Tea 34 

** Rare Roast Beef " 37 

Mrs. Reilly^s Peaches 41 

The Pneumogastric Nerve. 43 

The Cafe Molineau 45 

A New Brand of Cigars 47 

The Onion Tart 48 

A Western Boy's Lament 51 

Seein' Things. 52 

Our Whippings , 55 

The Snakes that Rowdy Saw 59 

Professor Vere de Blaw 63 

The Rime of the Crow Eater , 72 

The Aged Housewife's Prayer 78 

Dutch Lullaby 79 

Japanese Lullaby 81 

Norse Lullaby 83 

Corsican Lullaby , 84 

Orkney Lullaby ^ 



Paghj 

Jewish Lullaby 88 

Armenian Lullaby 90 

Cornish Lullaby 92 

Mother and Child 94 

The Two Little Skeezucks 95 

Nightfall in Dordrecht 99 

The Stork lOi 

At Play 103 

The English Mince Pie 105 

Our Boy 116 

Three Boys 121 

The Mother-1N-Law 125 

The Tragedie of Elaine 128 

Always Right , 135 

Mr. Billings of Louisville 136 

The Midway 137 

Inter-State Commerce 138 

Fisherman Jim's Kids .* 140 

Rev. Sam Small and Rev. Sam Jones — 142 



XCbe (Tlinft of tbe fee 

Notably fond of music, I dote on a sweeter 

tone 
Than ever the harp has uttered or ever the 

lute has known. 
When I wake at five in the morning with a 

feeling in my head 
Suggestive of mild excesses before I retired 

to bed; 
When a small but fierce volcano vexes me 

sore inside, 
And my throat and mouth are furred with a 

fur that seemeth a buffalo hide, — 
How gracious those dews of solace that over 

my senses fall 
At the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy 

brings up the hall ! 

Oh, is it the gaudy ballet, with features 1 can- 

not name, 
That kindles in virile bosoms that slow but 

devouring flame ? 
Or is it the midnight supper, eaten before we 

retire, 



26 THE CLINK OF THE ICE 

That presently by combustion setteth us all 

afire? 
Or Is it the cheery magnum, — nay, I'll not 

chide the cup 
That makes the meekest mortal anxious to 

whoop things up: 
Yet, what the cause soever, relief comes when 

we call, — • 
Relief with that rapturous cllnkety-clink that 

clinketh alike for all. 



I've dreamt of the fiery furnace that was one 

vast bulk of flame,' 
And that I was Abednego a-wallowing in that 

same ; 
And I've dreamt I was a crater, possessed of a 

mad desire 
To vomit molten lava, and to snort big gobs 

of fire ; 
I've dreamt I was Roman candles and rockets 

that fizzed and screamed, — 
In short, I have dreamt the cussedest dream 

that ever a human dreamed: 
But all the red-hot fancies were scattered 

quick as a wink 
When the spirit within that pitcher went 

clinking its cllnkety-clink. 



THE CLINK OF THE ICE 27 

Boy, why so slow in coming with that gracious, 

saving cup ? 
Oh, haste thee to the succor of the man who 

is burning up ! 
See how the ice bobs up and down, as if it 

wildly strove 
To reach its grace to the wretch who feels like 

a red-hot kitchen stove ! 
The piteous clinks it clinks methinks should 

thrill you through and through: 
An erring soul is wanting drink, and he wants 

It p. d. q. I 
And, lo ! the honest pitcher, too, falls in so dire 

a fret 
That its pallid form is presently bedewed with\ 

a chilly sweat. 



May blessings be showered upon the man who 
first devised this drink 

That happens along at five a.mo with its rap- 
turous clinkety-clink ! 

I never have felt the cooling flood go sizzling 
down my throat 

But what I vowed to hymn a hymn to that 
clinkety-clink devote ; 

So now, in the prime of my manhood, I polish 
this lyric gem 



28 THE CLINK OF THE ICE 

For the uses of all good fellows who are 

thirsty at five a.m., 
But specially for those fellows who have 

known the pleasing thrall 
Of the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy 

brings up the hall. 



Stster'6 Calie 

I'd not complain of Sister Jane, for she was 

good and kind. 
Combining with rare comeliness distinctive 

gifts of mind ; 
Nay, I'll admit it were most fit that, worn by 

social cares, 
She'd crave a change from parlor life to that 

below the stairs, 
And that, eschewing needlework and music, 

she should take 
Herself to the substantial art of manufacturing 

cake. 

At breakfast, then, it would befall that Sister 
Jane would say: 

"Mother, if you have got the things, I'll make 
some cake to-day 1" 

Poor mothered cast a timid glance at father, 
like as not — 

For father hinted sister's cooking cost a fright- 
ful lot— 

99 



30 



SISTER'S CAItE 



But neither she nor he presumed to signify dis* 

sent, 
Accepting it for gospel truth that what she 
wanted went! 



No matter what the rest of 'em might chance 

to have in hand, 
The whole machinery of the house came to a 

sudden stand; 
The pots were hustled off the stove, the fire 

built up anew, 
With every damper set just so to heat the oven 

through ; 
The kitchen-table was relieved of everything, 

to make 
That ample space which Jane required when 

she compounded cake. 



And, oh ! the hustling here and there, the fly- 
ing to and fro; 

The click of forks that whipped the eggs to 
lather white as snow — 

And what a wealth of sugar melted swiftly out 
of sight — 

And butter? Mother said such waste would 
ruin father, quite ! 



SISTER'S CAKE 31 

But Sister Jane preserved a mien no pleading 

could confound 
As she utilized the raisins and the citron by 

the pound. 

Oh, hours of chaos, tumult, heat, vexatious din 

and whirl ! 
Of deep humiliation for the sullen hired-girl; 
Of grief for mother, hating to see things 

wasted so, 
And of fortune for that little boy who pined to 

taste that dough ! 
It looked so sweet and yellow — sure, to taste 

it were no sin — 
But, oh! how sister scolded if he stuck his 

finger in ! 

The chances were as ten to one, before the 
job was through, 

That sister'd think of something else she'd 
great deal rather do ! 

So, then, she'd softly steal away, as Arabs in 
the night. 

Leaving the girl and ma to finish up as best 
they might; 

These tactics (artful Sister Jane) enabled her 
to take 

Or shift the credit or the blame of that too- 
treacherous cake ! 



32 SISTER'S CAKE 

And yet, unhappy is the man who has no Sis- 
ter Jane — 

Tor he who has no sister seems to me to live 
in vain. 

1 never had a sister — may be that is why to-day 

Via wizened and dyspeptic, instead of blithe 
and gay; 

A boy who's only forty should be full of romp 
and mirth, 

But / (because Fm sisterless) am the oldest 
man ofi earth ! 

Had I a little sister — oh, how happy I should 

be! 
Td never let her cast her eyes on any chap but 

me; 
I'd love her and I'd cherish her for better and 

for worse — 
Fd buy her gowns and bonnets, and sing her 

praise in verse; 
And — yes, what's more, and vastly more — I 

tell you what Fd do: 
Fd let her make her wondrous cake, and I 

would eat it, too ! 

I have a high opinion of the sisters, as you 

see— 
Another fellow*s sister is so very dear to me 1 



SISTER'S CAKE 

I love to work anear her when she's making 

over frocks, 
When she patches little trousers or darns 

prosaic socks; 
But I draw the line at one thing — yes, I don 

my hat and take 
A three hours* walk when she is moved to try 

her hand at cake I 



Crumpets an& XCea 

There are happenings in life that are destined 

to rise 
Like dear, hallowed visions before a man's 

eyes; 
And the p^assage of years shall not dim in the 

least 
The glory and joy of our Sabbath-day feast — 
The Sabbath-day luncheon that's spread for us 

three — 
My worthy companions, Teresa and Leigh, 
And me, all so hungry for crumpets and tea. 

There are cynics who say with invidious zest 
That a crumpet's a thing that will never 

digest; 
But I happen to know that a crumpet is prime 
For digestion, if only you give it its time. 
Or if, by a chance, it should not quite agree, 
Why, who would begrudge a physician his fee 
For plying his trade on crumpets and tea ? 

To toast crumpets quite a la mode, I require 
A proper long fork and a proper quick fire; 

34 



CRUMPETS AND TEA 35 

And, when they are browned, without further 

ado 
I put on the butter, that soaks through and 

through. 
And meantime Teresa, directed by Leigh, 
Compounds and pours out a rich brew for us 

three; 
And so we sit down to our crumpets — and tea. 

A hand-organ grinds in the street a weird bit, — - 
Confound those Italians! I wish they would 

quit 
Interrupting our feast with their dolorous airs, 
Suggestive of climbing the heavenly stairs. 
(It's thoughts of the future, as all will agree, 
That we fain would dismiss from our bosoms 

when we 
Sit down to discussion of crumpets and tea!) 

The Sabbath-day luncheon whereof I now 

speak 
Quite answers its purpose the rest of the week; 
Yet with the next Sabbath I wait for the bell 
Announcing the man who has crumpets to 

sell; 
Then I scuttle downstairs in a frenzy of glee, 
And purchase for sixpence enough for us 

three, 
Who hunger and hanker for crumpets and tea. 



36 CRUMPETS AND TEA 

But soon — ah! too soon — I must bid a farewell 
To joys that succeed to the sound of that bell, 
Must hie me away from the dank, foggy 

shore 
That's filled me with colic and — yearnings for 

more ! 
Then the cruel» the heartless, the conscience- 
less sea 
Shall bear me afar from Teresa and Leigh 
And the other twin friendships of crumpets 
and tea. 

Yet often, ay, ever, before my wan eyes 
That Sabbath-day luncheon of old shall arise 
My stomach, perhaps, shall improve by the 

change. 
Since crumpets It seems to prefer at long range: 
But, oh, how my palate will hanker to be 
In London again with Teresa and Leigh, 
Enjoying the rapture of crumpets and tea? 



**1Ravc IRoast BccV* 

When the numerous distempers to which all 
flesh Is heir 

Torment us till our very souls are reeking with 
despair; 

When that monster fiend, Dyspepsy, rears its 
spectral hydra head, 

Filling don vivants and epicures with certain 
nameless dread; 

When any ill of body or of Intellect abounds, 

Be it sickness known to Galen or disease un- 
known to Lowndes, — 

In such a dire emergency It is my firm belief 

That there is no diet quite so good as rare 
roast beef. 

And even when the body's in the very prime 

of health, 
When sweet contentment spreads upon the 

cheeks her rosy wealth, 
And when a man devours three meals per day 

and pines for more, 

37 



^S "RARE ROAST BEEF" 

And growls because, instead of three square 
meals, there are not four, — 

Well, even then, though cake and pie do serv- 
ice on the side, 

And coffee is a luxury that may not be 
denied, 

Still, of the many viands, there is one that*s 
hailed as chief, 

And that, as you are well aware, is rare roast 
beef. 



Some like the sirloin, but I think the porter- 
house is best, — 
'Tis juicier and tenderer and meatier than the 

rest; 
Put on this roast a dash of salt, and then of 

water pour 
Into the sizzling dripping-pan a cupful, and no 

more; 
The oven being hot, the roast will cook in half 

an hour; 
Then to the juices in the pan you add a little 

flour, 
And so you get a gravy that is called the cap 

• sheaf 
Of that glorious summum bonunt^ rare roast 

beef. 



"RARE ROAST BEEF 



39 



Served on a platter that is hot, and carved 

with thin, keen knife. 
How does this savory viand enhance the worth 

of life ! 
Give me no thin and shadowy slice, but a thick 

and steaming slad- 
Who would not choose a generous hunk to a 

bloodless little dab ? 
Upon a nice hot plate how does the juicy 

morceau steam, 
A symphony in scarlet or a red incarnate 

dream! 
Take from me eyes and ears and all, O Time, 

thou ruthless thief ! 
Except these teeth wherewith to deal with 

rare roast beef. 



Most every kind and role of modern victuals 
have I tried. 

Including roasted, fricasseed, broiled, toasted, 
stewed, and fried. 

Your canvasbacks and papa-bottes and mut- 
ton-chops subese, 

Your patties a la Turkey and your doughnuts 
a la grease; 

Fve whirled away dyspeptic hours with crabs 
in marble halls, 



40 "RARE ROAST BEEF" 

And in the lowly cottage I've experienced 

codfish balls; 
But I've never found a viand that could so 

allay all grief 
And soothe the cockles of the heart as rare 

roast beef. 

I honor that sagacious king who, in a grateful 

mood, 
Knighted the savory loin that on the royal 

table stood; 
And as for me I'd ask no better friend than 

this good roast, 
Which is my squeamish stomach's fortress 

{feste Burg) and host; 
For, v^?'ith this ally with me, I can mock Dys- 

pepsy's wrath, 
Can I pursue the joy of Wisdom's pleasant, 

peaceful path. 
So I do off my vest and let my waistband out a 

reef 
When I soever set me down to rare roast beef. 



Whether in Michigan they grew, 

Or by the far Pacific, 
Or Jersey wards, I never knew 

Or cared — they were magnlfique ! 
They set my hungry eyes aflame, 

My heart to beating quicker, 
When trotted out by that good damev 

A-drowned in spicy liquor ! 

Of divers sweets in many a land 

I have betimes partaken, 
Yet now for those old joys I stand. 

My loyalty unshaken I 
My palate, weary of the ways 

Of modern times, beseeches 
The toothsome grace of halcyon days 

And Mrs, Reilly's peaches I 

Studded with cloves and cinnamon. 
And duly spiced and pickled, 

That viand was as choice an one 
As ever palate tickled ! 

4rl 



42 MRS. REILLY'S PEACHES 

And by those peaches on his plate 
No valorous soul was daunted, 

For oh, the more of them you ate 
The more of them you wanted I 

The years had dragged a weary pace 

Since last those joys I tasted, 
And I have grown so wan of face 

And oh, so slender-waisted ! 
Yes, all is sadly changed, and yet 

If this eulogium reaches 
A certain lady, I shall get 

A quick return in peaches. 



XTbe i&ncumoGa5trlc IPletve 

Upon an average, twice a week, 

When anguish clouds my brow, 
My good physician friend I seek 

To know "what ails me now." 
He taps me on the back and chesty 

And scans my tongue for bile, 
And lays an ear against my breast 

And listens there awhile; 
Then is he ready to admit 

That all he can observe 
Is something wrong inside, to wit: 

My pneumogastric nerve ! 

Now, when these Latin names within 

Dyspeptic hulks like mine 
Go wrong, a fellow should begin 

To draw whaf s called the line. 
It seems, however, that this same. 

Which in my hulk abounds, 
Is not, despite its awful name, 

So fatal as it sounds; 
Yet, of all torments known to me, 

I'll say without reserve, 

43 



THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE 

There is no torment like to thee, 
Thou pneumogastric nerve I 

This subtle, envious nerve appears 

To be a patient foe, — 
It waited nearly forty years 

Its chance to lay me low; 
Then, like some blithering blast of hell. 

It struck this guileless bard, 
And in that evil hour I fell 

Prodigious far and hard. 
Alas! what things I dearly love — 

Pies, puddings, and preserves — 
Are sure to rouse the vengeance of 

All pneumogastric nerves ! 

Oh, that I could remodel man 1 

I'd end these cruel pains 
By hitting on a different plan 

From that which now obtains. 
The stomach, greatly amplified. 

Anon should occupy 
The all of that domain inside 

Where heart and lungs now lie. 
But, first of all, I should depose 

That diabolic curve. 
The author of my thousand woes, 

The pneumogastric nerve I 



TTbe (Tate /iDoItneau 

The Cafe Molineau is where 

A dainty little minx 
Serves God and men as best she can 

By serving meats and drinks. 
Oh, such an air the creature has. 

And such a pretty face ! 
I took delight that autumn night 

In hanging round the place. 

I know but very little French 

(I have not long been here); 
But when she spoke, her meaning broke 

Full sweetly on my ear. 
Then, too, she seemed to understand 

Whatever I'd to say, 
Though most I knew was **oony poo/' 

"Bong zhoor," and "see voo play." 

The female wit is always quick, 

And of all womankind 
*Tis here in France that 3^ou, perchance. 

The keenest wits shall find; 

45 



46 THE CAFE MOLINEAU 

And here you'll find that subtle gift, 
That rare, distinctive touch, 

Combined with grace of form and face. 
That glads men overmuch. 

**Our girls at home," I mused aloud, 

"Lack either that or this; 
They don't combine the arts divine 

As does the Gallic miss. 
Far be it from me to malign 
^ Our belles across the sea, 

And yet Til swear none can compare 

With this ideal She." 

And then I praised her dainty foot 

In very awful French, 
And parleywood in guileful mood 

Until the saucy wench 
Tossed back her haughty auburn head, 

And froze me with disdain: 
**There are on me no flies," said she, 

"For I come from Bangor, Maine!" 



a 1Flew Sran^ of Ctoars 

**La Marie Jansen" is a new brand of cigars that has been 
devised, manufactured, and uttered by an enterprising Boston 
man named Horace S. Woodbury. The vivacious lady w^ho 
gives her name to these delectable v<reeds has honored us with 
a box of them, and we desire to testify to the superior quality 
of the same (the cigars). The Jansen has no equal among 
domestic goods, nor have we seen any foreign article that we 
prefer to it. It is of medium size, of proper heft, is well filled, 
and it imparts a singularly pleasing flavor to one's mouth. We 
know not how better to express our approval of this paragon of 
home industry than in thes-s eloquent words of the inspired 
poet; 

"The weed that's imported is commonly 
courted, 

But I claim that the home-made will do, sir; 
So I hullaballoo f r th* indigenous two-f r. 

And stand for the red-white-and-blue, sin 
The Jansen's the smoker for this jolly joker — 

It draws well, is fragrant and dapper; 
It is so much the best that I'd swap all the 
rest 

For just one — in a cute little wrapper/ 



TLhc ©nion Uart 

Of tarts there be a thousand kinds, 

So versatile the art, 
And, as we all have different minds, 

Each has his favorite tart; 
But those which most delight the rest 

Methinks should suit me not: 
The onion tart doth please me best — 

Ach, GottI mein lieber Gott ! 

Where but in Deutschland can be found 

This boon of which I sing? 
Who but a Teuton could compound 

This sui g'enerzs thing? 
None with the German frau can vie 

In arts cuisine, I wot, 
Whose summum bonwm breeds the sigh, 

"Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott !" 

You slice the fruit upon the dough, 

And season to the taste, 

Then in an oven (not too slow) 

The viand should be placed; 
48 



THE ONION TART 49 

And, when 'tis done, upon a plate 

You serve it piping hot, 
Your nostrils and your eyes dilate,— 

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott ! 

It sweeps upon the sight and smell 

In overwhelming tide, 
And then the sense of taste as well 

Betimes is gratified: 
Three noble senses drowned in bliss ! 

I prithee tell me, what 
Is there beside compares with this ? 

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott ! 

For if the fruit be proper young, 

And if the crust be good, 
How shall they melt upon the tongue 

Into a savory flood ! 
How seek the Mecca down below, 

And linger round that spot, 
Entailing weeks and months of woe — 

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott I 

If Nature gives men appetites 

For things that won't digest, 
Why, let them eat whatso delights, 

And let her stand the rest; 
And though the sin involve the cost 



so 



THE ONION TART 

Of Carlsbad, like as not, 
'Tis better to have loved and lost— 
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott I 

Beyond the vast, the billowy tide, 

Where my compatriots dwell, 
All kinds of victuals have I tried, 

All kinds of drinks, as well; 
But nothing known to Yankee art 

Appears to reach the spot 
Like this Teutonic onion tart— 

Ach, Gott I mein lieber Gott ! 

So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide 

As full as I can hold. 
And for complete reform inside 

Plank down my hoard of gold, 
Remorse shall not consume my heart, 

Nor sorrow vex my lot. 
For I have eaten onion tart, 

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott ! 



H Mestern Bo^'s !!Lament 

I wished I lived away down east where cod« 

fish salt the sea, 
And where the folks have pumpkin pie and 

apple sass for tea. 
Us boys who*s livin* here out west don't get 

more*n half a show — 
We don't have nothin' else to do but jest to 

sort o* grow. 

Oh, if I was a bird I'd fly a million miles away 
To where they feed their boys on pork and 

beans three times a day; 
To where the place they call the Hub gives 

out its shiny spokes, 
And where the folks — so father says — is 

mostly women folks. 



Seefn' XTbinos 

I ain't afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or 

worms, or mice, 
An* things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are 

awful nice ! 
Vm pretty brave, I guess; an' yet I hate to go 

to bed, 
For, when Tm tucked up warm an* snug an' 

when my prayers are said, 
Mother tells me *' Happy dreams!" and takes 

away the light, 
An' leaves me lyin' all alone an* seein' things 

at night 1 

Sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes 

they're by the door, 
Sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle 

uv the floor; 
Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes 

they're walkin' round 
So softly an' so creepylike they never make a 

sound 1 



SEEIN* THINGS 



53 



Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other 

times they're white — 
But the color ain't no difference when you see 

things at night! 



Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved 

on our street, 
An' father sent me up to bed without a bit to 

eat, 
I woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' 

in a row, 
A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at 

me — so ! 
Oh, my! I wuz so skeered that time I never 

slep' a mite — 
It's almost alluz when Fm bad I see things 

at night 1 



Lucky thing I ain't a girl, or I'd be skeered to 

death ! 
Bein' I'm a boy, I duck my head an' hold my 

breath; 
An' I am, oh! so sorry I'm a naughty boy, air 

then 
I promise to be better an' I say my prayers 

again ! 



54 



SEEIN' THINGS 



Gran*ma tells me that's the only way to make 

it right 
When a feller has been wicked an' sees things 

at night ! 

An* so, when other naughty boys would coax 

me into sin, 
I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges 

me within; 
An' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at's 

big an' nice, 
I want to — but I do not pass my plate f'r them 

things twice ! 
No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out 

o' sight 
Than I should keep a-livin' on an' seein* things 

at night I 



Come, Harvey, let us sit awhile and talk 

about the times 
Before you went to selling clothes and I to 

peddling rhymes — 
The days when we were little boys, as naughty 

little boys 
As ever worried home-folks with their ever- 
lasting noise ! 
Egad ! and, were we so disposed, I'll venture 

we could show 
The scars of wallopings we got some forty 

years ago; 
What wallopings I mean, I think I need not 

specif}^ — 
Mother's v/hlpplngs didn't hurt; but father's! 

oh, my ! 

The way that we played hookey those many 
years ago — 

We'd rather give 'most anything than have our 
children know ! 

The thousand naughty things we did, the thou- 
sand fibs we told — 

55 



56 OUR WHIPPINGS 

Why, thinking of them makes my Presbyterian 
blood run cold ! 

How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked, if 
we were his 

He*d tan our "pesky little hides until the blis- 
ters riz!" 

It's many a hearty thrashing to that Deacon 
Morse we owe — 

Mother's whippings didn't count — father's did, 
though ! 



We used to sneak off swlmmin' in those care- 
less, boyish days, 
And come back home of evenings with our 

necks and backs ablaze; 
How mother used to wonder why our clothes 

were full of sand, 
But father, having been a boy, appeared to 

understand. 
And, after tea, he'd beckon us to join him in 

the shed, 
Where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a 

deeper, darker red; 
Say what we will of mother's, there is none 

will controvert 
The proposition that our father's lickings 

always hurt ! 



OUR WHIPPINGS 57 

For mother was by nature so forgiving and so 

mild 
That she inclined to spare the rod although 

she spoiled the child; 
And when at last in self-defence she had to 

whip us, she 
Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal 

more than we ! 
But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd 

like to die — 
Poor mother really thought she hurt,^ and 

that's what made her cry ! 
Then how we youngsters snickered as out the 

door we slid, 
For mother's whippings never hurt, though 

father's always did. 



In after years poor father simmered down to 

five feet four, 
But in our youth he seemed to us in height 

eight feet or more ! 
Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, 

suggestive tone: 
"I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all 

alone!" 
Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and 

trouser buttons flew — 



58 OUR WHIPPINGS 

What florid vocalisms marked that vesper 

interview ! 
Yet, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly 

assert, 
With all respect to mother, it was father's 

whippings hurt ! 

The little boy experiencing that tinglin' 'neath 

his vest 
Is often loath to realize that all is for the best; 
Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with 

delight 
The buffetings of childhood — as we do here 

to-night. 
The years, the gracious years, have smoothed 

and beautified the ways 
That to our little feet seemed all too rugged 

in the days 
Before you went to selling clothes and I to 

peddling rhymes — 
So, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon 

those times. 



Ubc Snaftes XTbat IRowt)^ Saw 

These are the snakes that Rowdy saw: 
Some were green and some were white, 
Some were black as the spawn of night; 
Some were yellow, 
And one big fellow 
Had monstrous blotches of angry red 
And a scarlet welt on his slimy head; 
And other snakes that Rowdy saw 
Were of every hue 
From pink to blue, 
And the longer he looked, the bigger they 
grew ! 

An old he-snake with a frowzy head 
Was one of the snakes that Rowdy saw. 
This old he-snake he grinned and leered 
When he saw that Rowdy was afeard; 
And he ran out his tongue in frightful wise 
As he batted his fireless dead-fish eyes; 
And he lashed his tail 
In the moonlight pale, 

59 . 



6o THE SNAKES THAT ROWDY SAW 

And he tickled his jaw with his left hind 

paw — 
Did this old he-snake that Rowdy saw ! 

These hideous snakes that Rowdy saw 
Wiggled and twisted 
Wherever they listed, 
Straightway glided 
Or ambled one-sided. 
There were some of those things 
That had fiery wings — 
Yes, some of the snakes that Rowdy saw 
Hummed round in the air 
With their eyeballs aglare 
And their whiskers aflare, 
And they hissed their approval of Rowdy's 
despair! 

And some of the snakes that Rowdy saw 
Had talons like bats. 
And looked like a cross between buzzards 

and rats ! 
They crawled from his boots, and they sprawled 

on the floor, 
They sat on the mantel, and perched on the 

door, 
And grinned all the fiercer the louder he 

swore!. 



THE SNAKES THAT ROWDY SAW 6i 

Out, out of his boots 
Came the damnable brutes — 
These murdersome snakes that Rowdy saw I 
Strange cries they uttered, 
And poison they sputtered 
As they crawled or they fluttered ! 
This way and that 
Their venom they spat, 
Till Rowdy had doubts as to where he was at ! 

They twined round his legs, and encircled his 

waist J 
His arms and his neck and his breast they 

embraced; 
They hissed in his ears, and they spat in his eyes. 
And with their foul breaths interrupted his 
cries. 
Blue serpents, and green, 
Red, yellow and black — 
Of as hideous mien 
As ever was seen 
Girt him round, fore and back. 
And higgling 
And wriggling, 
With their slimy and grimy preponderance 

they bore 
Rowdy down to the floor. He remembers no 
more. 



62 THE SNAKES THAT ROWDY SAW 

The sequel is this: The snakes that he saw 
Were such hideous snakes, were such tor- 

turesome things, 
With their poison-tipped fangs and their 

devil-claw wings, 
That he speaks of them now with a meaningful 

awe; 
And when m the bar-room the bottle goes 

round, 
And wassail and laughter and "boodle" abound, 
Poor Rowdy he turns down his glass with a 

sigh. ' 
"Come, Rowdy, drink hearty I" the aldermen 

cry. 
His palate is yearning, his fauces are dry, 
The bottle appeals to his gullet and eye; 
But he thinks of the snakes, and he — ^lets it 

go by. 



professor IDere De ifiSlaw 



Achievin' sech distinction with his model 

tabble dote 
Ez to make his Red Hoss Mountain restauraw 

a place uv note, 
Our old friend Casey Innovated somewhat 

round the place, 
In hopes he would ameliorate the sufferings uv 

the race; 
*Nd uv the many features Casey managed to 

import 
The most important wuz a Steenway gran* 

pianny-fort, 
An', bein' there wuz nobody could play upon 

the same, 
He telegraffed to Denver, 'nd a real perfesser 

came, — 
The last an' crownin' glory uv the Casey 

restauraw 
Wuz that tenderfoot musicianer, Perfesser 

Vere de Blaw 1 

His hair wuz long an* dishybill, an* he had a 

yaller skin, 

An* the absence uv a collar made his neck 

look powerful thin; 

63 



64 PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 

A sorry man he wuz to see, az mebby you*d 

surmise, 
But the fire uv inspiration wuz a-blazin' in his 

eyes ! 
His name wuz Blanc, wich same is Blaw (for 

that's what Casey said, 
An' Casey passed the French ez well ez any 

Frenchie bred); 
But no one ever reckoned that it really wuz 

his name, 
An' no on6 ever asked him how or why or 

whence he came, — 
Your ancient history is a thing the Coloradan 

hates. 
An' no one asks another what his name wuz 

in the States ! 



At evenin', when the work wuz done, *nd the 

miners rounded up 
At Casey's, to indulge in keerds or linger with 

the cup, 
Or dally with the tabble dote in all its native 

glory, 
Perfesser Vere de Blaw discoursed his music 

repertory 
Upon the Steenway gran' pianny-fort, the wich 

wuz sot 



PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 65 

In the hallway near the kitchen (a warm but 
quiet spot), 

An* when De Blaw's environments induced 
the proper pride, — 

WIch gen' rally wuz whiskey straight, with 
seltzer on the side, — 

He throwed his soulful bein' into opry airs *nd 
things 

WIch bounded to the ceilin* like he'd mesmer- 
ized the strings. 



Oh, you that live in cities where the gran' 

piannies grow, 
An' primy donnles round up, it's little that 

you know 
Uv the hungerin' an' the yearnin' wich us 

miners an' the rest 
Feel for the songs we used to hear before we 

moved out West. 
Yes, memory Is a pleasant thing, but it weak- 
ens mighty quick; 
It kind uv dries an* withers, like the windin' 

mountain crick, 
That, beautiful, an* singin* songs, goes dancin* 

to the plains. 
So long ez it is fed by snows an* watered by 

the rains; 



66 PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 

But, uv that grace uv lovin' rains 'nd mountain 

snows bereft, 
Its bleachin* rocks, like dummy ghosts, is all 

its memory left. 

The toons wich the perfesser would perform 

with seeh eclaw 
Would melt the toughest mountain gentleman 

I ever saw, — 
Sech touchin' opry music ez the Trovytory 

sort, 
The solium ''Mizer Reery,** an' the thrillin' 

"Keely Mort"; 
Or, sometimes, from **Lee Grond Dooshess" a 

trifle he would play, 
Or morsoze from^a' opry boof, to drive dull 

care away; 
Or, feelin' kind uv serious, he'd discourse 

somewhat in C, — • 
The wich he called a* opus — whatever that 

may be; 
But the toons that fetched the likker from the 

critics in the crowd 
Wuz not the high-toned ones, Perfesser Vere 

de Blaw allowed. 

Twuz "Dearest May," an' "Bonnie Doon," an' 
the ballard uv "Ben Bolt/' 



PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 67 

Ez wuz regarded by all odds ez Vere de Blaw's 

best holt; 
Then there wuz "Darlln' Nellie Gray/' an* 

"Settin' on the Stile," 
An' "Seein* Nellie Home/' an' "Nancy Lee," 

'nd "Annie Lisle," 
And "Silver Threads among the Gold," 'nd 

"The Gal That Winked at Me," 
An' "Gentle Annie," "Nancy Till," an' "The 

Cot beside the Sea." 
Your opry airs is good enough for them ez 

likes to pay 
Their money for the truck ez can't be got no 

other way; 
But opry to a miner is a thin an* holler thing — 
The music that he pines for is the songs he 

used to sing. 

One evenin', down at Casey's, De Blaw wuz at 

his best, 
With four-fingers uv old Wilier-run concealed 

beneath his vest; 
The boys wuz settin' all around, discussin' folks 

an' things, 
'Nd I had drawed the necessary keerds to fill 

on kings; 
Three-fingered Hoover kind uv leaned acrosst 

the bar to say 



68 PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 

If Casey' d liquidate right off, hid liquidate 
next day; 

A sperrit uv contentment wuz a-broodin* all 
around 

(Onlike the other sperrits wich in restauraws 
abound), 

When, suddenly, we heerd from yonder 
kitchen-entry rise 

A toon each ornery galoot appeared to recog- 
nize, 

Perfesser Vere de Blaw for once eschewed his 

opry ways, 
An* the remnants uv his mind went back to 

earlier, happier days 
An* grappled like an' wrassled with a' old 

familiar air 
The wich we all uv us had heern, ez you 

have, everywhere ! 
Stock still we stopped, — some in their talk uv 

politics an' things, 
I in my unobtrusive attempt to fill on kings, 
An' Hoover leanin' on the bar, and Casey at 

the till,— 
We all stopped short an* held our breaths (ez a 

feller sometimes will), 
An* sot there more like bumps on logs than 

healthy, husky men. 



PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 69 

Ez the memories uv that old, old toon come 
sneakin' back again. 

You've guessed it? No, you haven't; for it 

wuzn't that there song 
Uv the home we'd been away from an' had 

hankered for so long, — 
No, sir; it wuzn't "Home, Sweet Home,'' 

though it's always heerd around 
Sech neighborhoods in wich the home that is 

"sweet home" is found. 
And, ez for me, I seemed to see the past come 

back again, 
And hear the deep-drawed sigh my sister Lucy 

uttered when 
Her mother asked her if she'd practised her 

two hours that day, 
Wich, if she hadn't, she must go an' do it 

right away ! 
The homestead in the States an' all its memo- 
ries seemed to come 
A-floatin' round about me with that magic 

lumty-tum. 

And then uprose a stranger wich had struck 

the camp that night; 
His eyes wuz sot an' fireless, 'nd his face wuz 

spookish white. 



70 PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 

'Nd he sez: "Oh, how I [suffer there is nobody 
kin say, 

Onless, like me, he's wrenched himself from 
home an* friends away 

To seek surcease from sorrer in a fur, secloo- 
ded spot, 

Only to find — alars, too late ! — the wich sur- 
cease Is not 1 

Only to find that there air things that, some- 
how, seem to live 

For nothin' in the world but jest the misery 
they give ! 

Tve travelled eighteen hundred miles, but that 
toon has got here first; 

Fm done, — I'm blowed, — I welcome death, an' 
bid It do its worst !" 



Then, like a man whose mind wuz sot on 

yieldin' to his fate. 
He waltzed up to the counter an' demanded 

whiskey straight, 
Wich havin* got outside uv, — both the likker 

and the door, — 
We never seen that stranger in the bloom uv 

health no more ! 
But, some months later, what the birds had 

left uv him wuz found 



PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 71 

Associated with a tree, some distance from the 

ground; 
And Husky Sam, the coroner, that set upon 

him, said 
That two things wuz apparent, namely: first, 

deceast wuz dead; 
And, second, previously had got involved 

beyond all hope 
In a knotty complication with a yard or two 

uv rope ! 



Cbe 1Rimc ot tbe Crow Eatet 

Into the market place there came 
(One autumn morning murky) 

An old and battered veteran 
To choose a proper turkey. 

His coat tails and his shrunken shanks 
Had cockle burrs stuck to *em, 

And his whiskers looked as if the wind 
Of winter had blown through 'em. 

And still as through those whiskers white 

The breezes rudely fluttered, 
The old man from a cracker-box 

This strange recital uttered: 

'Twice two long years," says he, "I've sot 

Around the Grand Pacific, 
And all that twice two years the feed 
Has simply been terrific." 

THE GRAND PACIFIC 

'*For twice two years I've eaten crow 

In widely various weathers; 
Not only meat and skin and bones^ 
But also claws and feathers !" 

72 



THE RIME OF THE CROW EATER 73 
A CROW 

"The crow it is a dismal bird, 
And deeply I abhor It; 
For twice two years Tve lived on crow, 
Though never clamoring for it. 

" 'What have we on the bill to-day ?* 

I'd question of the waiter; 
*Turk fer the rest/ sez he, 'but you 
Gets crow an' cold pertater !' 

"They gave me crow In every style 
And every foreign name, sir — 
Alas ! no matter how disguised, 
Crow alwaysjs the same, sir! 

"Though it be christened a la mode^ 
Still is its flavor queer, sir; 
No rhetoric can mitigate 
Its consequences here, sir I 

"In vain I fled from John B. Drake 
To other restauraters; 
In vain I sought for victuals else 
Than crow and cold pertaters !" 

A RESTAURANT 

"They fed me crow and only crow 
Until I thought Td die, sir; 



74 THE RIME OF THE CROW EATER 

I got so full of crow at last 
I half opined I'd fly, sir ! 



"For, as I said a spell ago, 

In fair and stormy weathers, 
1 ate not only the skin and bones — 
I ate also the feathers ! 

**The crow it is a noxious bird 
To stomachs such as mine is; 
But, heaven be praised! there is no ill 
But some time has its Jims! 

"Once, as I chewed the bitter cud 
Of gloomy introspections, 
A cheery voice broke in upon 
The thread of my reflections. 

"I looked up and saw the face 
Of Captain John R. Tanner! 
I heard salvation in his voice — 
I saw it in his manner 1 

"At once dispelled were gnawing griefs 
And apprehensions gloomy; 
^ Of all the spectacles on earth. 

This was the most precious to me I" 



THE RIME OF THE CROW EATER 75 

SPECTACLES 



C( c 



John! John!' I wailed, 'give piteous ear 

Unto my tale of woe, sir; 
For twice two years I've eaten crow, 
And eaten only crow, sir I 

" * What wonder is it that I cry, 
"(9 temporal O mores P* 
Since gnawing crow has worn away 
My denies inczsores/\ " 

DENTES INCISORES 

" 'The bird of which you speak,* says John, 
*It, too, has been my living; 
But, Bailey, you and I shall gorge 
On turkey, come Thanksgiving ! 



tc 



'See here; I have a subtle soup 
Corked up in this decanter, 

With which I'll prove ''simtlza 
Similibus curantMrT 



«< « 



I shall inject this subtle soup 
Into our common foe, sir; 
Then shall zve get the turkey-bird, 
And they shall get the crow, sir I 



76 THE RIME OF THE CROW EATER 



» ( 



But never mind particulars — 
Just wait and watch the sequel ! 
Oh, we shall lead them such a dance 
As never had an equal !' " 



A DANCE 



«( 



Twas even as John Tanner said, 
And you will not deny it 
If you observe, Thanksgiving Day, 
My changed and sumptuous diet I 

Times are more prosperous than they were- 
Once more we've peace and plenty; 

Turkey shall be my dainty feast 
Next week, Deo volentel 

'For twice two years I've lived on crow 
Through ever changeful weathers — 

Those twice two cycles fed on skins. 
Bones, inwards, claws and feathers.** 



TWICE TWO CYCLES 

"But fickle fate has brought me joy, 
And, feeling blithe and perky, 
I've come into the market place 
To fetch a bouncing turkey. 



THE RIME OF THE CROW EATER ^^ 

"No senile, starveling bird will do — 
But one that's young and tender; 
One that is whiskerless and plump, 
And of the female gender 1" 

A TURKEY 

"Fll carve it next Thanksgiving Day, 

And pour the oyster sauce on — 
'Twill be a goodly change from crow X' 
Quoth grand old Bailey Dawson 



tCbe Hfle& Ibousewite's Ptapet 

I pray that, risen from the dead, 
I may in glory stand, 

A crown, perhaps, upon my head- 
But a needle in. my hand. 

Fve had no time to learn to play — 

So let no harp be mine; 
Through all my life, by night and day. 

Plain sewing*s been my line. 

Therefore, accustomed, to the end. 

To plying useful stitches, 
ril be content if asked to mend 

The little angels* breeches. 

Live long, dear, kindly woman — live long to 
bless us with your gentle works and Christian 
example; live long to gather from our hands 
and lips and hearts the debt of gratitude and 
love we owe ! 



. H)tttcb aullabs 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 

Sailed off In a wooden shoe — 
Sailed on a river of misty light, 

Into a sea of dew. 
"Where are you going, and what do you wish ?'* 

The old moon asked the three. 
"We have come to fish for the herring fish 
That live in this beautiful sea; 
Nets of silver and gold have we T 
Said Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 

The old moon laughed and sang a song. 

As they rocked in the wooden shoe. 
And the wind that sped them all night long 

Ruffled the waves of dew. 
The little stars were the herring fish 
That lived in that beautiful sea — 
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish — 
Never afeard are we"; 
So cried the stars to the fishermen three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 



8o DUTCH LULLABY 

All night long their nets they threw 

To the stars in the twinkling foam — 
Then down from the skies came the wooden 
shoe, 
Bringing the fishermen home, 
'Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed 

As if it could not be, 
And some folks thought *twas a dream they'd 
dreamed 
Of sailing that beautiful sea — 
But I shall name you the fishermen three. 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, 

And Nod is a little head, 
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 

Is a wee one's trundle-bed. 
So shut your eyes while mother sings 

Of wonderful sights that be, 
And you shall see the beautiful things ^ 
As you rock in the misty sea 
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen 
three: 

Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 



■Japanese XuUab^ 

Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings, — 
Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes; 

Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging—' 
Swinging the nest where her little one lies. 

Away out yonder I see a star,— 
Silvery star with a tinkling song; 

To the soft dew failing I hear it calling — 
Calling and tinkling the night along. 

In through the vnndow a moonbeam comes, — 
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings; 

All silently creeping, it asks: *'Is he sleeping — 
Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings ?'* 

Up from the sea there floats a sob 
Of the waves that are breaking upon the 
shore, 
As though they were groaning in anguish, and 
moaning — 
Bemoaning the ship that shall come no 
more. 

8i 



82 JAPANESE LULLABY 

But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,— 
Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes; 

Am I not singing ? — see, I am swinging — 
Swinging the nest where my darling lies. 



I^orse Xullabf 

The sky is dark and the hills are white 

As the storm - king speeds from the north 

to-night; 
And this is the song the storm-king sings, 
As over the world his cloak he flings: 

"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;" 
He rustles hi^ wings and gruffly sings: 

"Sleep, little one, sleep." 

On yonder mountain-side a vine 
Clings at the foot of a mother pine; 
The tree bends over the trembling thing, 
And only the vine can hear her sing: 

"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; 
What shall you fear when I am here ? 

Sleep, little one, sleep." 

The king may sing in his bitter flight, 
The king may croon to the vine to-night, 
But the little snowflake at my breast 
Liketh the song / sing the best, — 

Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; 
Weary thou art, anext my heart 

Sleep, little one, sleep. 

83 



Cotafcan Xullabv 

Bambino in his cradle slept; 

And by his side his grandam grim 
Bent down and smiled upon the child. 

And sung this lullaby to him, — 
This "ninna and anninia": 

"When thou art older, thou shalt mind 
To traverse countries far and wide, 
And thou shalt go where roses blow 
And balmy waters singing glide — 
So ninna and anninia! 



«< 



And thou shalt wear, trimmed up in points 

A famous jacket edged in red, 
And, more than that, a peaked hat, 

All decked in gold, upon thy head — 
Ah ! ninna and anninia I 



"Then shalt thou carry gun and knife, 

Nor shall the soldiers bully thee; 

Perchance, beset by wrong or debt, 

A mighty bandit thou shalt be — 

So ninna and anninia ! 
84 



CORSICAN LULLABY 85 

"No woman yet of our proud race 

Lived to her fourteenth year unwed; 
The brazen churl that eyed a girl 

Brought her the ring or paid his head — 
So ninna and anninia I 

**But once came spies (I know the thieves I) 
And brought disaster to our race; 
God heard us when our fifteen men 
Were hanged within the market-place — 
But ninna and anninia I 

"Good men they were, my babe, and true,— 
Right worthy fellows all, and strong; 
Live thou and be for them and me 
Avenger of that deadly wrong — 
So ninna and anninia T' 



r 

A moonbeam floateth from the skies, 
Whispering, *'Heigho, my dearie! 
I would spin a web before your eyes— 
A beautiful web of silver light, 
Wherein is many a wondrous sight 
Of a radiant garden leagues away. 
Where the softly tinkling lilies sway, 
And the snow-white lambkins are at play,- 
Heigho, my dearie !" 

A brownie stealeth from the vine, 
Singing, "Heigho, my dearie! 
And will you hear the song of mine, — 
A song of the land of murk and mist 
Where bideth the bud the dew hath kist? 
Then let the moonbeam's web of light 
Be spun before thee silvery white. 
And I shall sing the livelong night, — 
Heigho, my dearie 1" 

The night wind speedeth from the sea, 

Murmuring, "Heigho, my dearie I 
I bring a mariner's prayer for thee; 

36 



ORKNEY LULLABY 87 

So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes, 
And the brownie sing thee lullabies; 
But I shall rock thee to and fro, 
Kissing the brow he loveth so, 
And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow, — 
Heigho, my dearie T 



Sewtsb XullabB 

My harp is on the willow-tree, 
Else would I sing, O love, to thee 

A song of long-ago — 
Perchance the song that Miriam sung 
Ere yet Judea's heart was wrung 

By centuries of woe. 

I ate my crust in tears to-day, 

As scourged I went upon my way — 

And yet my darling smiled; 
Ay, beating at my breast, he laughed — 
My anguish curdled not the draught — 

*Twas sweet with love, my child I 

The shadow of those centuries lies 
Deep in thy dark and mournful eyes — 

But, hush ! and close them now; 
And in the dreams that thou shalt dream 
The light of other days shall seem 

To glorify thy brow I 

88 



JEWISH LULLABY 89 

Our harp is on the willow-tree — 
I have no song to sing to thee, 

As shadows around us roll: 
But, hush and sleep, and thou shalt hear 
Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer 

Judea's fainting soul I 



Hrmentan Xullal)^ 

If thou wilt close thy drowsy eyes, 
My mulberry one, my golden sun ! 

The rose shall sing thee lullabies 
My pretty cosset lambkin ! 

And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree, 

With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee- 

A silver boat in a golden sea — 

My own velvet love, my nestling dove, 
My own pomegranate blossom ! 

The stork shall guard thee passing well 
All night, my sweet ! my dimple-feet 1 
And bring thee myrrh and asphodel, 

My gentle rain-of-sprlngtlme ! 
And for thy slumbrous play shall twine 
The diamond stars with an emerald vine— 
To trail in the waves of ruby wine — 
My myrtle bloom, my heart's perfume, 
My little chirping sparrow ! 

And when the morn wakes up to see 
My apple bright, my soul's delight ! 

QO 



ARMENIAN LULLABY 91 

The partridge shall come calling thee, 

My jar of milk-and-honey ! 
Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies 
In the amethyst deep of the curtained skies. 
If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes. 

You w^akeful one, you naughty son. 
You cooing little turtle! 



Cornisb Xullabg 

Out on the mountain over the town 

All night long, all night long, 
The trolls go up and the trolls go down, 

Bearing their packs and crooning a song; 
And this is the song the hill-folk croon. 
As they trudge in the light of the misty moon,- 
This is ever their dolorous tune: 
"Gold, gold ! ever more gold, — 

Bright red gold for dearie!" 

Deep in the hill the yeoman delves 

All night long, all night long; 
None but the peeping, furtive elves 

See his toil and hear his song; 
Merrily ever the cavern rings 
As merrily ever his pick he swings, 
And merrily ever this song he sings: 
"Gold, gold ! ever more gold,- — 

Bright red gold for dearie !" 

Mother is rocking thy lowly bed 
All night long, all night long, 

92 



CORNISH LULLABY 



93 



Happy to smooth thy curly head 

And to hold, thy hand and to sing her song; 
Tis not of the hill-folk, dwarfed and old, 
Nor the song of the yeoman, stanch and bold, 
And the burden it beareth is not of gold; 
But it's "Love, love ! — nothing but love, — 
Mother's love for dearie 1" 



/Dotbet anb CbtlD 

One night a tiny dewdrop fell 

Into the bosom of a rose, — 
"Dear little one, I love thee well, 

Be ever here thy sweet repose !** 

Seeing the rose with love bedight. 

The envious sky frowned dark, and then 
Sent forth a messenger of light 

And caught the dewdrop up again. 

"Oh, give me back my heavenly child, — 
My love !" the rose in anguish cried; 

Alas ! the sky triumphant smiled, 
And so the flower, heart-broken, died. 



XCbe ICwo Xfttle Sfteesucfts 

There were two little skeezucks who lived in 
the isle 
Of Boo in a southern sea; 
They clambered and rollicked in heathenish 
style 
In the boughs of their cocoanut tree. 
They didn*t fret much about clothing and such, 
And they recked not a whit of the ills 
That sometimes accrue 
From having to do 
With tailor and laundry bills. 

The two little skeezucks once heard of a 
Fair 
Far off from their native isle, 
And they asked of King Fan if they mightn't 
go there 
To take in the sights for a while. 
Now old King Fan 
Was a good-natured man 
(As good-natured monarchs go), 
And howbeit he swore that all Fairs were a 
bore, 
He hadn't the heart to say "No." 

95 



96 THE TWO LITTLE SKEEZUCKS 

So the two little skeezucks sailed off to the 
Fair 
In a great big gum canoe, 
And I fancy they had a good time there, 

For they tarried a year or two. 
And old King Fan at last began 
To reckon they'd come to grief, 
When, glory! one day 
They sailed into the bay 
To the tune of "Hail to the Chief !" 

The two little skeezucks fell down on the sand 

Embracing his majesty's toes, 
Till his majesty graciously bade them stand 
And salute him nose to nose. 
And then quoth he: 
"Divulge unto me 
What happenings have hapt to you; 
And how did they dare to indulge in a Fair 
So far from the island of Boo ?" 

The two little skeezucks assured their king 
That what he surmised was true; 

That the Fair would have been a different 
thing 
Had it only been held in Boo ! 

"The folk over there in no wise compare 
With the folk of the southern seas; 



THE TWO LITTLE SKEEZUCKS 97 

Why, they comb out their heads 
And they sleep In beds 
Instead of in caverns and trees T 

The two little skeezucks went on to say 

That children (so far as they knew) 
Had a much harder time in that land far away 
Than here in the island of Boo ! 
They have to wear clones 
Which (as every one knows) 
Are irksome to primitive laddies, 
While, with forks and with spoons, they're 
denied the sweet boons 
That accrue from free use of one's paddies ! 



(( 



«( 



And now that you're speaking of things to 
eat," 
Interrupted the monarch of Boo, 
We beg to Inquire If you happened to meet 
With a nice missionary or two ?" 
No! that did we not; in that curious spot 
Where were gathered the fruits of the earth, 
Of that special kind 
Which Your Nibs has In mind 
There appeared a deplorable dearth !" 

Then loud laughed that monarch in heathenish 
mirth, 
And laughed his courtiers, too, 



gB THE T,WO LITTLE SKEEZUCKS 

And they cried; "There is elsewhere no land 
upon earth 
So good as our island of Boo !'* 
And the skeezucks, tho' glad 
Of the journey they'd had, 
Climbed up in their cocoanut trees, 
Where they still may be seen with no shirts to 
keep clean 
Or trousers that bag at the knees. 



Bigbttall in BorDrecbt 

The mill goes toiling slowly around, 

With steady and solemn creak, 
And my little one hears in the kindly sound 

The voice of the old mill speak. 
While round and round those big white wings 

Grimly and ghostlike creep, 
My little one hears that the old mill sings: 

"Sleep, little tulip, sleep !" 

The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn, 

And, over his pot of beer, 
The fisher, against the morning's dawn, 

Lustily maketh cheer; 
He mocks at the winds that caper along 

From the far-off clamorous deep, — 
But we — we love their lullaby song 

Of, "Sleep, little tulip, sleep !" 

Old dog Fritz in slumber sound 

Groans of the stony mart, — 
To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you round, 

Hitched to our new milk-cart 1 

99 

:. OF Cw 



lOO NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT 

And you shall help me blanket the kine 

And fold the gentle sheep, 
And set the herring a-soak in brine, — 

But now, little tulip, sleep ! 

A Dream-One comes to button the eyes 

That wearily droop and blink, 
While the old mill buffets the frowning skies 

And scolds at the stars that wink; 
Over your face the misty wings 

Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep, 
And, rocking your cradle, she softly sings: 

"Sleep, little tulip, sleepT' 



Zbc Storft 

Last night the Stork came stalking, — 

And, Stork, beneath your wing 
Lay, lapped in dreamless slumber, 

The tiniest little thing ! 
From Babyland, out yonder 

Beside a silver sea, 
You brought a priceless treasure 

As gift to mine and me ! 

Last night my dear one listened, — 

And, wife, you knew the cry, — 
The dear old Stork has sought our home 

A many times gone by ! 
And in your gentle bosom 

I found the pretty thing 
That from the realm out yonder 

Our friend the Stork did bring. 

Last night a babe awakened, — 
And, babe, how strange and new 

Must seem the home and people 
The Stork hath brought you to; 

loi 



I02 THE STORK 

And yet, methinks you like them, — 
You neither stare nor weep, 

But closer to my dear one 
You cuddle, and you sleep I 

Last night my heart grew fonder — 

O happy heart of mine, 
Sing of the inspirations 

That round my pathway shine ! 
And sing your sweetest love-song 

To this dear, nestling wee 
The Stork from 'Way-Out-Yonder 

Hath brought to mine and me I 



Play that you are a mother dear, 

And play that papa is your beau; 
Play that we sit in the corner here, 

Just as we used to, long ago. 
Playing so, we lovers two 

Are just as happy as we can be, 
And I'll say "I love you" to you. 

And you say "I love you'* to me I 
*'I love you" we both shall say, 
All in earnest and all in play. 

Or, play that you are that other one 

That some time came, and went away; 
And play that the light of years agone 

Stole into my heart again to-day ! 
Playing that you are the one I knew 

In the days that never again may be, 
I'll say "I love you" to you. 

And you say "I love you" to me ! 
"I love you !" my heart shall say 

To the ghost of the past come back to-day ! 

103 



I04 



AT PLAY 



Or, play that you sought this nestling-place 

For your own sweet self, with that dual 
guise 
Of your pretty mother in your face 

And the look of that other in your eyes I 
So the dear old loves shall live anew 

As I hold my darling on my knee, 
And I'll say "I love you" to you, 

And you say "I love you" to me I 
Oh, many a strange, true thing we say 
And do cwhen we pretend to play I 



Zbc Bnalt0b /iDtnce pie 

The last of the Thanksgiving mince pie is 
gone; its end was as mysterious and porten- 
tous as its beginning and its career. I refer, 
of course, to the London mince pie, the occult 
conglomeration which we were beguiled into 
buying last November, while we labored under 
the delusion that to buy a mince pie was the 
patriotic thing for an American to do. 

I remember the day distinctly; it was one of 
those cheerful, typical, foggy, suicidal days in 
which this London climate abounds. We 
were sitting in a drawing-room in the Quad- 
rant. The slavey had just replenished the 
grate fire, and Colonel Reid, Cowen, Harry 
Dam, Tom Fielders, and I, — as superb a 
quintet of dyspeptics as ever discussed high 
food and hot biscuits, — gathered around the 
hearthstone and gazed into the flickering 
flames and talked about Thanksgiving din- 
ner. It was agreed that turkey should be 

the piece de resistance, and we rejoiced to 

105 



io6 THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 

hear Tom Fielders say that he had heard 
Ralph Meeker tell somebody else that Leigh 
Lynch had told him that genuine American 
cranberries could be bought at a shop under 
Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly. With turkey 
and genuine cranberry sauce we should be 
happy, and with that combination we should 
have been satisfied. But in an unlucky mo- 
ment I ventured the suggestion that without a 
mince pie to symmetrize it no Thanksgiving 
dinner could be complete. A profound grunt 
of approval all around assured me that I had 
ihe sympathy of the entire community. 

"And I know where mince pies can be 
bought," said Harry Dam. "I understand 
that there is but one caterer's in town where 
satisfaction is guaranteed. That is Buszard's 
in Oxford Street." 

"I do not know that I particularly fancy that 
name," remarked Colonel Reid. "Buszard is 
a significant, not to say an ominous, name; as 
one who has always been loyal to the eagle, I 
object to Bdszard." 

"But really, colonel," expostulated Tom 
Fielders, "Buszard is the swell caterer of Lon- 
don; for years he has pandered to the royal 
household and to the nobility, and his shop is 
regarded hereabouts as the Mecca for all in 



THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 107 

quest of sapid, succulent, and savory viands. 
If anybody cap make a mince pie, Buszard 
can." 

The result of the talk was that we all became 
highly enthusiastic on the subject of Buszard's 
mince pies, and when Cowen and I left the 
cheerful bachelor chambers we proceeded 
forthwith to Buszard's shop, a somewhat pre- 
tentious shop in Oxford Street just off Regent. 
The show-windows were filled with divers- 
colored confections, the tables were covered 
with truculent-looking puddings and cakes, 
and the atmosphere was laden with a per- 
fume as of boiling maple sap. 

It was our misfortune to fall into the 
clutches of a sallow-faced young man wearing 
a checkered suit of clothes, a dark-red neck- 
tie, and a head of coarse black hair larded 
down with odoriferous bear's grease — one of 
those garrulous young chappies who know it 
all and tell more. He assured us that "we" 
could make a mince pie — he called it ^poy"; he 
knew what a genuine American mince pie was, 
had often made them for Americans, and 
would guarantee entire satisfaction. Miser- 
able dupes that we were, we trusted the 
loquacious cockney How much would a pie, a 
genuine American mince pie, with real apples 



io8 THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 

and real meat in it, cost us? We were some- 
what startled when he answered half a guinea. 
We told him that this was simple extor- 
tion — nay, the equivalent of $2.65 for a mince 
pie was unadulterated robbery ! Why, in Pot- 
ter Palmer's conscienceless restaurant in Chi- 
cago the finest native mince pie cost only $1, 
and that included melted cheese on top, and a 
genuine Senegambian prince at the side to 
serve it on hot plates. We rebelled against 
half a guinea as a man would take up arms 
against the iron heel of oppression. The 
garrulous young cockney then said that "we" 
would consult with the manager, and he dis- 
appeared through a swinging door, only to 
return presently to announce sententiously 
that seven and six was the very, very lowest 
price for which the pie could be provided. 
Fancying that we could do no better, we paid 
the low-browed robber that amount of money 
and bade him send the pie to our lodgings 
upon Thanksgiving afternoon, not later than 
three o'clock, Greenwich time. 

At the appointed hour, surely enough, the 
goods (you see I speak cautiously) were deliv- 
ered in an oblong box, which, upon examina- 
tion, was found to contain a dish, and in the 
dish was the pie, or rather a pie, still warm. 



THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 109 

The dish was oval In shape, ten inches long 
and four inches in depth. 

I asked the servant if she knew what it was. 

"Yes, sir; it's a Yorkshire pudding," said she. 

"Put it away," said I. 

Billy Knox and J. L. Sclanders, old news- 
paper co-workers from Chicago, dined with us. 

"Now, boys," said I, at last, "I've got a sur- 
prise for you"; and the servant produced the 
pie — Buszard's mince "poy." 

"I thought we were going to have mince 
pie ?" said Cowen. 

"So we are," said I. 

"Ah, it's to come later?" 

"No, this is it." 

"That isn't a mince pie," expostulated 
Cowen; "that's a pudding. Nobody ever saw 
a mince pie served in a bowl !" 

"But it is a mince pie," I insisted. "The 
leading London caterer made it; and it must 
be good." 

I served the pie liberally. I did not dare 
eat any myself, for the doctor had forbidden 
that sort of thing. Then, too, on Thanksgiv- 
ing day one can afford to be princely even in 
doling out pie at seven and six. 

The pie had a thick double crust (by which 
I mean an upper and a lower crust), and be- 



no THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 

tween these crusts {id est, supra et infra) lay a 
black mass of lovely indigestible matter that 
smelled like a barber's shop. 

Three inches of mince meat; think of it, 
ye housewives of my beloved native land ! 

I felt indignant when I saw that our guests 
did not devour the viand with voracity. I 
knew that the pie was good; it must be good, 
it had to be good, at seven and six ! 

"I think you must be mistaken about this," 
said my friend Knox, cautiously. "I have 
eaten mince pie all my life, — mince, pie in the 
sacred groves of the Des Plalnes, mince pie in 
the academic shades of Evanston, mince pie 
in the black-jack thickets of Egypt, and mince 
pie in the subterranean recesses of the Boston 
Oyster-house, — but never, no, never before, 
have I tasted mince pie like this mince pie. 
As I figure It, without prejudice, this is more 
like a fruit pudding." 

My friend Sclanders said that upon one 
occasion, while he was a student in Munich, he 
had seen and partaken of a dish that quite 
resembled this particular dish; as he recol- 
lected, it was called Splutterungenleischlied- 
gehabten. As for my old chum, Cowen, he 
had done (with every possible variation) all the 
territory between Buenavista, Colorado, and 



THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE m 

Vienna, Austria, and he had never before met 
up with mince pie the Hke of this mince pie. 

To make a long story short, what was left 
of Buszard's mince pie was set away in a corner 
of the cupboard, and Buszard's name was fre- 
quently but not felicitously mentioned. 

In some Avay or other it got noised about 
that we had a genuine American mince pie in 
the house, and forthwith the Americans began 
to flock in upon us from every side. Ralph 
Meeker and his wife were amongst the first. 
Having had dyspepsia twenty years, Ralph 
was a mince-pie virtuoso. He just looked at 
our mince pie and said: "That's no pie; that's 
a Scotch bun !" 

J. P. Andrews of Grand Rapids, Mich., went 
so far as to taste it, and for weeks and weeks 
afterward he said he felt as if he had a slab 
of verd-antlque marble in his stomach. 

M. E. Stone tried it, and then (just like 
him !) he posted off to Scotland Yard and 
hired a gang of detectives to find some clew as 
to what it was. 

John C. New took a piece of it to his office 
with him, and used it for a paper-weight. 
Will Eaton thought that the substratum of 
the pie looked a good deal like the vein of a 
coal-mhiC \\c once owned out in Iowa. And so, 



112 THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 

in one way and another, they all heaped con- 
tumely and obloquy upon that pie — that mince 
pie for which I had paid Buszard seven and 
six. 

Once — now, this is a confession I have never 
made before — once, I say, I arose in the mid- 
dle of the night and stole to the cupboard and 
partook of that swarthy pie. I was curious to 
determine for myself whether the pie merited 
all this ribald abuse, and whether a serious 
injustice was not being done to Buszard. The 
result of my investigation was complimentary 
neither to the pie nor to its compounder. 

We then went back to bed, — the piece of pie 
and I, — and in dreams I saw a gaunt figure rise 
from a dark corner and approach me with 
the words: "At last, son-in-law, I have thee in 
my power." Next morning we arose, — that 
piece of pie and I, — and I was pale, exhausted, 
trembling. We kept company many moons. 
Had It not been for my wife, a most frugal 
soul, I should have thrown the remnants of 
the pie away, but my wife represented that it 
would be wicked to indulge in such extrav- 
agance. As it was, I did upon one occasion 
cast some bits of the pie to the sparrows that 
clustered, shiveringly and appealingly, upon 
the rail of the window balcony. It was 



THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 113 

pathetic to see each hungry little creature hop 
down and pick up a crumb of the pie and hold 
it in his mouth and roll his eyes back and 
think, then sneeze, drop the crumb, and fly 
away, never to return. 

A week ago last Sunday the dolorous tones 
of a hand-organ came up from the [street 
below. A poor woman, wretchedly clad, was 
grinding out the melancholy tune of. "Shall 
We Gather at the River?" It was a dreary, 
raw, chilly day. The woman looked pinched 
and hungry. Her husband, as ill clad as she, 
was wandering from house to house, beseech- 
ing pennies. 

"My dear," said I to wife, "would it not be 
wise to give the rest of our mince pie to this 
poor woman, who is perhaps the mother of 
starving little ones ?" 

That finish caught my wife. "Of course," 
said she. "I knew we'd put the pie to some 
good use if we only kept it till the proper 
time came." 

So I gathered up the remnants of the pie 
and carried them down-stairs to the poor 
woman. The squalid creature seized them 
eagerly and gulped them down with the 
ferocity of a famished wolf. "Grazia, sig- 
norel" I heard her say, as I walked away. 



114 THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 

Her eyes were full of the tears of gratitude. 
I felt that I had done a worthy deed. 

A few days later I chanced to meet Prof. 
Robert Aylmer, a distinguished chemist from 
Boston. He told me that a friend of his (Col. 
John C. Reid) had sent him for chemical 
analysis a specimen of English mince-meat, 
taken from a mince pie compounded by one 
Crow, an eminent London baker. 

"You mean Buszard,'* said L 

"That may have been the name/* said the 
professor, "At any rate, I analyzed the speci- 
men and found it a curious compound, quite 
unlike our American mince pie. The con- 
stituent parts of this composition were, as I 
remember, as follows: 

Lemon peel lo 

Orange peel, ...,...,,.... lo 

Citron 5 

Pineapple rind 15 

Almonds 2 

Caraway seeds. . , . , 8 

Cocoanut 5 

Green figs 2 

Brussels sprouts 10 

Prunes 3 

Epp's cocoa, 2 

Scotch whiskey 3 

Stilton cheese 5 

Pears* soap __20 



THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 



T15 



There was a slight trace of Thames water, but 
I deemed it hardly sufficient to be noticed. 
Altogether, the compound is a baleful one — 
as deadly, I think, as the breath of the vam- 
pire or the shade of the upas. I have sent a 
specimen to Professor Pasteur, in order that 
he may apply the biologic test, to determine if 
there be in it a germ likely to induce an epi- 
demic." 

So much for the scientific view of the Ameri- 
can mince pie as concocted by Buszard, the 
swell caterer of London. I am no scientist; I 
am simply a modest chronicler of passing 
events. 

Last Sunday I sat in this same chair, here in 
these humble lodgings, when suddenly came 
up from the street below the voice of that 
old, dolorous tune, "Shall We Gather at the 
River?" 

"It is the poor swart daughter of Italy," I 
sighed; "she has come back gaunt and hun- 
gry. I would that I had food for her." 

Overflowing as to my heart with pity, I went 
to the window and looked down at the sorry 
wretch grinding that wheezy organ. It was 
the husband, tattered and wan and shivering. 
He was alone, and upon his left arm he wore 
a rude strip of black crape. 



The poet has said that in the springtime the 
young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of 
love. But there is many a young man in this 
great world of ours who turns his vernal atten- 
tion to many an object other than love — would 
that he did not ! How shall we describe him ? 
Is he not indescribable, inexpressible, ineffa- 
ble? He is known the world over in every 
truly happy home as **Our Boy," and, in spite 
of his deviltry, and in spite of the worry he 
occasions us, who is there among us that will 
not say amen to the sentiment, "God bless 
him" ? 

In this mild, malarious weather of spring 
"Our Boy" arises early of a morning. He 
has rested well; a dreamless sleep has pre- 
pared him for another day of conquest. He 
begins his diurnal career by awakening the 
whole household. Perchance he drives his 
velocipede up and down the back hall; may be 
he enlivens the situation in the kitchen with a 
rough-and-tumble battle with the argus-eyed 



OUR BOY 



117 



hired girl, whose blessed prerogative it is to 
defend the family sugar bowl against all 
depredatory comers. One thing can be de- 
pended upon: "Our Boy" will let everybody 
within hearing distance know that he then and 
there is on earth and has come to stay. 
Another thing can be depended upon: "Our 
Boy" will put on his best clothes instead of his 
every-day clothes unless his sagacious mother 
has sequestered those best clothes in one of 
those mysterious hiding places which woman- 
kind is so fertile in devising. "Our Boy" is 
wondrously proud of his best trousers — proud 
of them until he gets them on. When he once 
gets them on he seems to be equally proud of 
ruining them as fast as he can. 

The game of marbles is an invention of the 
devil in the interest of tailors and to the dis- 
traction of mothers. The morning and the 
evening of the first day constitute the pathetic 
history of many a knickerbocker at this season 
of the year. A plague on the "mibs," the 
"alleys," the ''chinas," the "agates," the "bran- 
dies," the "flints," Jhe "catseyes," and the "car- 
nelians," we say! Why is it that the boys of 
to-day are not as proper, as neat, and as 
orderly as their fathers used to be when they 
were boys? Another deligrht which engages 



xi8 OUR BOY 

"Our Boy" just now is that of fishing. Well, 
may be his piscatorial penchant is inherited; 
there is certainly no pleasanter nor more 
harmless employment than that of angling. 
But the line should be drawn at the practice 
which "Our Boy'* makes of wading around In 
two feet of water, netting minnows two Inches 
long. This practice would seem to prove to 
our complete satisfaction that our boys are de- 
generate. 

But what adds insult to injury is the habit 
which "Our Boy" has fallen into of bringing 
his wretched little fish home in oyster cans 
and dumping them for permanent abode in 
the family bath-tub. It is a mighty cheerful 
thing for a father to march into a bath-room 
for purposes of ablution, only to find the tub 
half full of wriggling minnows. To add to his 
vexation, these miserable fish lie close to the 
top of the water and thrust their heads half 
out and mouth at one as If mocking him. 
Wretched creatures, we would the pickerel 
had you all I 

But before all marbles that roll and all fish 
that swim, "Our Boy" loves the dog; the 
measlier the dog the more lovable is he in the 
eyes of "Our Boy." Why is it, we wonder — 
can anybody explain it — that "Our Boy's" dog 



OUR BOY 



H9 



is always a tramp and always of the feminine 
gender? Another thing that excites our won- 
der is the universal fact that "Our Boy" is 
hardly able to carry his spelling book to and 
from school, and yet thinks nothing of lugging 
a dog four miles and a half. "Our Boy" may 
not weigh forty-five pounds, but every blessed 
day of his life he comes into the house carry- 
ing a 125-pound dog under his arm with ease 
and with enthusiasm. 

And the beauty of it is that the miserable, 
ore-eyed, mangy cur seems to enjoy "Our Boy" 
quite as much as "Our Boy" enjoys the cur. 
Well, that's where the cur's head is level, for 
the cur not only gets the best ediblesjn the 
house but is decorated with the choicest rib- 
bons "Our Boy" can find in his mother's 
bureau, and is honored with a name wholly 
unfitte to one of the cur's sex. 

So it is that "Our Boy" lives and moves and 
has his being. And between his marbles and 
his fish and his wretched dogs and his thou- 
sand other grotesque delights, he worries his 
poor old father and his patient mother nearly 
into their untimely graves. Yet when the 
day is done and "Our Boy" goes to that 
dreamless sleep of his, who, seeing the inno- 
cent beauty of his slumbering face, does not 



120 OUR BOY 

forget the care he has brought and think only 
of the music and the sunshine of his little 
life ? 

**Ah, there he lies — so peaceful like — - 
God bless his golden headi 
We quite forgive the little tyke 
For the ill he's done or said/' 



An overweening love for brute pets seems to 
be one of the sure signs of the degeneracy of 
the rising generation. We do not remember 
that in the halcyon days of youth we were 
addicted to any of the monstrosities which, 
within the last two years, v/e have found in 
the possession of the three boys who are 
bringing our scant hair in sorrow to the grave. 
In fact, when we compare the exceeding pro- 
priety of our own youth with the shocking 
depravity of our progeny, we are disposed to 
think that our civilization is a failure. 

We now desire to say a few words on the 
subject of rabbits. 

About ten days ago the three boys above 
referred to came back from a foraging expe- 
dition with a rabbit — a sort of brindle rabbit 
with albino eyes and a tail like a cottonwood 
blov/. We represented to the boys that, with 
a lame chicken dodging around in the front 
chamber, the bath-tub full of minnows and 
crawfish, a brood of unfledged chimney-swal- 
lows in the lower drawer of their mother's 

121 



122 THREE BOYS 

bureau, a pouter-pigeon roosting on our folio 
edition of Bunyan, and a disreputable dog 
sprawling about on the furniture, a once happy 
home had been made about as miserable as it 
could stand. 

"But it's a wabbit 1 oh, such a pooty wab- 
bitl" 

Finally — we wonder why it is that a mother 
always takes up her boys — ^finally, we say, all 
the parties concerned agreed to a compromise 
under the terms of which the lame chicken, the 
crawfish, the minnows, the pouter-pigeon, and 
the chimney-swallows were to go, incon- 
tinently, and the "wabbit" was to remain. 
The bo3^s were to have the "wabbit,*' and 
nothing else whatever — not even tickets to the 
circus 1 So the "wabbit'* was turned loose in 
the back yard and for a considerable time was 
seen no more. Next morning a small, round, 
dark hole burrowed diagonally into the rich, 
loamy earth of the back yard indicated that the 
rabbit had retired temporarily from civiliza- 
tion. About three times a day the boys used 
to go out in the back yard and empty water 
and preserves and cake into the hole, in order 
that the rabbit might not perish of thirst or 
starvation. 

In about two days the house began to settle 



THREE BOYS 123 

and John Root, whom we summoned to inves- 
tigate the proceedings professionally, was 
greatly puzzled. He found the foundation of 
the house entirely adequate, yet it was plain 
that the foundation was undermined and was 
sinking. Next day the northwest corner of a 
neighbor's house sunk fourteen inches, giving 
the beholder the impression that the house 
was located on a side hill; it made a person 
seasick to look at it. 

Presently other houses in the block began to 
settle, and by this time there was a general 
alarm. 

Mr. Root called a consultation of the lead- 
ing experts, but there was a diversity of opin- 
ion as to the causes of this remarkable 
deflection of the earth's surface. The most 
plausible theory seemed to be that a secret 
subterranean eddy* or whirlpool had crept in 
from the lake and was slowly crumbling the 
earth from under the foundations of the struc- 
tures in question. It was determined to apply 
a test, and accordingly men w^ere set to work 
with a long steel borer — the kind that is used 
for boring wells in the prairie. After boring 
half a day the men pulled up the auger in the 
expectation that a fountain of crystal lake 
water would bubble forth. But instead of 



124 THREE BOYS 

water what should issue from the earth but 
that rabbit, followed by the smaller rabbits, 
all with albino eyes and tails like cottonwood 
blows ! 

It now appeared to Mr. Root and to his 
syndicate of fellow-scientists (and it was 
equally clear to us) that these rabbits had 
caused the mischief; that, observing their 
inscrutable instincts, they had burrowed hither 
and thither, up and down, rectangularly and 
catacorner^d, until, as a result of their diabol- 
ical industry, they had undermined the whole 
neighborhood with a network, a catacomb, a 
labyrinth of subterranean passages, avenues, 
and corridors. 

"Our wabbit! our wabbit! But where did 
all dose little wabbits come from ?" 

That is the question that we have been 
unable to answer. 

We never supposed, until we saw it demon- 
strated, that merely by planting a rabbit (as you 
would a potato) you could eventually harvest 
a large, an awful, crop of rabbits I 



XTbe /iDotber^in*»%aw 

Not a day passes that we do not find in the 
column of our exchanges many sarcastic flings 
at one of the most useful of human Institu- 
tions — viz., the mother-in-law. It has always 
been an occasion of surprise and of chagrin to 
us that men of seeming intelligence and heart 
could so debase their manliness as to jeer at 
and sneer at one of the worthiest classes of 
womankind. We expect low, coarse wit of 
the negro minstrel, and we are not amazed 
that within the narrow limitations Imposed by 
his lack of intelligence and of delicacy the 
negro minstrel should utilize the mother-in- 
law as the favorite butt of his vulgar ridicule. 
But when we see this tendency exhibited by 
men w^ho pretend to more elevated purposes — 
by those who claim to be in a peculiar sense 
educators of the people and molders of public 
opinion — what wonder that the spectacle ex- 
cites our disgust and execration. 

A vast majority of men, speaking from per- 
sonal experience, would say with us, we think, 

that the mother-in-law is one of the most wel- 

125 



i^ THE MOTHER-IN-LAW 

come, most convenient, and most blessed 
features in social and domestic economy. 
Surely there is no good man that, thinking of 
his own mother and of his ov/n grandmother, 
will not invoke God's sweetest blessings on 
the dear old lady who is his wife's mother and 
his children's grandma. 

Shame upon us if we were to defame this 
patient, kindly friend ! 

Has she not given us the woman who makes 
life worth Jiving? Has she not always been 
ready to help us in every struggle, to comfort 
us in every affliction, and to lighten the bur- 
den of domestic cares? Has she not taught 
us by her prudent counsels how to escape 
many dangers and to avoid many embarrass- 
ments? Has she not exemplified in all her 
associations v/ith us the purity, the simplicity, 
and the patience of her character, and the dis- 
interestedness and fullness of her joy? 

Now, when it comes to the father-in-law, we 
might sing in a different key. How does it 
happen that these sarcastic penny-a-liners do 
not devote their questionable talents to a dis- 
cussion of the father-in-law — the cranky, 
wheezy, gummy old gentleman who sits 
around on the front stoop in the sun all day 
and snores like a planing-mill all night? 



THE MOTHER-IN-LAW 127 

What does he do for the family? What does 
he know about sick children? Have you ever 
seen hint teaching your small boy how to 
sharpen a slate pencil with the bread-knife? 
Has he inked new eyes on your little girFs rag 
baby ? Did he ever put patches on the knees 
of the boys' trousers and keep the family 
darning cleaned up to date? Has he ever 
gone to the kitchen and cooked a meal of 
victuals whenever the hired girl flounced off 
in a rage? Has he ever done anything but 
sodger around like a dog with a sore ear, and 
talk about his liver and complain of the 
degeneracy of the times ? 

Yet you witlings humor this pesky old var- 
mint ; why? Because you hope to get value 
received when his will is probated. Venal 
wretches that you are, you tolerate and flat- 
ter this mumbling nuisance while you execrate 
the dear old saint who helps you to hold up 
your hands against the world. 

Always busy yet always cheerful, continually 
annoyed yet always patient, her useful life 
should have oi;r gratitude, our praise, our 
emulation. She is content with little, and so 
used has she become to work that if she is ever 
disposed to rebel it is against the promise of 
rest in eternity 



tCbe XEtadedte of Slaine 

Yester night it befell that our joyous citoyzen, 
McVicker hight, let crie a play wherein was 
given the mournful histories of Elaine, the 
faire maide of Astolate, the whyche hath been 
done into goodly Englishe verse by the 
renoned minstrell Lathrop and the plaier 
Harry Edouards. Now wit ye well that there 
was a full merrie concourse of peoples from 
every part, comyng with plaisaunt conversa- 
tions and great cheere for to see and to heere 
these proper histories whereof we spoke. In 
sooth, never hath ther ben so vast and so 
goodly a companie, a many ladies and their 
knights dight right fairly and making joyous 
discourse. But anone it was mervail to see 
how that the high and mighty gentles did wepe 
for the sorrowes of Elaine! It maketh the 
herte glad to see the noble porke packers and 
the larde refiners and eke the bourde of trade 
men to mone and make great dole for the love 
of a faire maide that dyed full ten hundred 

yeres syne. But certes, ther ben soche pitty in 

128 



THE TRAGEDIE OF ELAINE 129 

Chicago that by as moche soap as a man hath 
by so moche more doth it beseem him to make 
ado when that he is so minded. So it was, 
yester night, that the most grievous weping 
was made by the gentles with the bigest wal- 
lets and the bigest dimondes. And ther ben 
one pore man that ben trown out for that he 
did moe weping than he had a right to do on 
a cheape ticket. 

Whiles they let do the first intermission we 
asket the full riche linseed oil dealer, Beasley 
hight, how he was minded towards the play. 

"Marry come up with a wannion," quoth he. 
**I wend it ben a good show, but not as good 
as Camille." 

"Gadzooks," sales the porke packer, ycleped 
Bosbyshell, "this ben rot! But that I wist 
they wold let do a society play, be Cokis 
blode» I had gone to the Arabian Nights 
instead.'* 

Touching the same, a haut member of the 
West Syde Browning club sayed that one 
rattling ballay colde do moe business in Chi- 
cago than thrice seven plays that be made of 
poesie. 

Then whiles the folk did pass full merrily 
to and fro, saying wordes of cheere, the 
orchestra did make musick as ill beseemed the 



I30 THE TRAGEDIE OF ELAINE 

time and did play soche tunes as "Sally in Our 
Alley," "Fm a Dude," "She wears a dotted 
muslin, tra, la, la," and the like. Soothly this 
orchestra ben great mervail and hath no peer 
nowhere. Ther ben 12 men in that orchestra 
and they let do one tune in 12 keys, the 
whyche maketh our bach ake. 

Now of this same Elaine of Astolate hath 
divers persons written, of which the most 
renoned ben Sr, Tomas Mallory, knight, and 
Lord Alfred Tennyson, bart., but never hath 
none, sithence the daies wherein she made her 
grievous end, told of that maide and her 
unhappy love so plaisauntly as hath these 
same the whyche did make this play. When 
that this play was first let do in New York, 
ther ben critics that did despite it sore, for 
that they said the play was taken from Lord 
Tennyson, and ther ben one critic that did 
shew how that moche was therefrom, whereat 
all folk laughen loud when that the true 
author shewed this to be not no soche thing, 
but that hee himself writ these same very 
words. Of this hath a minstrell made this 
proper sonet: 

A New York critic, Winter bight, 
Upon a time did sore despite 
A play & him as he wrote it; 



THE TRAGEDIE OF EbAlNE 

He set a straw man on a hill; 
Then, couching his prodigious quill^ 
Most grievously he smote it. 

"Meseemeth, 'neath that poet guise 
The baseborn caitiff Lathrop lies — 

And he's the prey I've layed for; 
& it behooves me now to fare 
Against that prey and raise its hair — 

Syn that is what I'm paid for." 

So up & down that critic rased 

& backe & foorth he foyned & trased 

& monstrous strookes deliverd; 
Till that, from hacking at that straw 
In direst wise you ever saw, 

His quill was all to-shivered. 

& when he made an end at last 

& when that man of straw was brast 

Like so much straw asunder, 
Loud laughen peoples all to see 
That critic angred for that he 

Had made a grewsome blunder. 

It was not Lathrop that he slew, 
Though that was v/hat he meant to do 

With his egregious feather; 
*Twas Tennyson he slew so bold — 
Then was that critic, we ben told. 

Beset by wintry weather. 



131 



132 



THE TRAGEDIE OF ELAINE 



Now in this play whereof we speke ther ben 
thirteen actours — to-wit, Kyng Arthure, sir 
Bernard, the lord of Astolate; sir Torre, sir 
Launcelot, sir Lavaine, a dombe man; sir 
Gawaine, a holie munck; ' a harper, queene 
Guenever, Elaine, the maide of Astolate; 
Llanyed, and Roselle. And ther ben in the 
play five partes, most faire accoutred, of whych 
the first ben in a hall of Arthure's court 
wherein the full evill queen doth give her rede 
unto sir Launcelot that he fare to the jousts at 
Astolate. Then come we to Astolate where 
ther ben a feast to sir Launcelot with great 
cheere, and then doth Elaine, the lilly maide, 
be assotted upon sir Launcelot, nor knew no 
maide never befo none soche love like as this 
love of the faire maide for sir Launcelot. But, 
soothly, when that she wolde have him unto 
her husbande he sayeth her nay, for that he 
loves the queene nor none other. "Then 
shall I die, y-wise," saies shee; and, when that 
he ben gone, she ma,keth her prayers and she 
lets write a letter to sir Launcelot that he give 
the masse peny and that he pray some prayer 
more or lesse for her soule, and so shee dies. 
Right nobly were these things said and done, 
save and excepting onely that the damosel 
May Brooking ill knew her lines and did rase 



THE TRAGEDIE OF ELAINE 133 

and trase about the stage like unto a steere in 
a box carre. But of yonge Salvini truly colde 
it be said that he was sir Launcelot in look 
and werde and deede. And passing faire was 
the queen Guenever that the damosel Marie 
Burroughs did play. But a wicked queene 
shee was, and full of evill redes. Verily, it is 
great mervail how that a queene colde be so 
evill when ther ben no bourde of trade men 
around. 

In especiall did the peoples all speke to the 
praise of the lady Anne Russell, for that she 
did with soche mekeness and humility and 
gentlenesse pourtray the sorrowes of the 
maide of Astolate. Soothly had the maide 
hersell been there and had shee lived her 
wofull life before them all, ther had been no 
greater mone nor soche dole of weping. And 
when that the barge bearing the corpse of the 
gentle maide sweept downe the flood with that 
dombe man at the helme, then wit ye well the 
folk fell all to moning full sore and many ther 
ben of the ladies had like to swound. Yet it 
repented none to have come thither and to 
have heerd agen the mournful histories of the 
faire Elaine, for this play teecheth us how 
deare a thing is woman's love and how that 
none fear of death can shake it — nay, that she 



^34 



THE TRAGEDIE OF ELAINE 



had liefer die than abate one jot or title 
thereof. And in it all ther ben tendernesse 
and herte and teres, and who shall speke the 
full goodness of these things? For as the 
herte ben the sanctuary of men, so can ther 
never be no moe swete and holie thing than 
that whyche toucheth the herte and openeth 
the dores thereof and entereth therein to find 
lodgment. 

Godde graunt us evereche grace to hold 
steadfastly unto this beleeve, and Godde make 
us men all worthy of that love whyche, as the 
story of Elaine doth shew, despiseth death 
and endureth all things for our sake. 



If 

Don't take on so, Hiram, 

But do what you're told to do; 
It's fair to suppose that yer mother knows 

A heap sight more than you. 
I'll allow that sometimes her way 

Don't seem the wisest, quite; 
But the easiest way, 
When she's had her say, 

Is to reckon your mother is right. 

Courted her ten long winters — 

Saw her to singin' school — 
When she went down one spell to town, 

I cried like a dumed ol' fool ; 
Got mad at the boys for callin' 

When I sparked her Sunday night, 
But she said she knew 
A thing or two, 

And I reckoned your mother wuz right. 

I courted till I wuz aging 

And she wuz past her prime — 

I'd have died, I guess, if she hadn't said yes 
When I popped f'r the hundreth time; 

135 



136 MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE 

Said she*d never have took me 
If I hadn't stuck so tight — 

Opined that we 

Could never agree, 

And I reckon yer mother wuz right! 



^^fli 



fS^v. MllinQB of Xoul0villc 

There are times in one's life which one cannot 

forget, 
And the time I remember's the evening I met 
A haughty young scion of bluegrass renown 
Who made my acquaintance while painting the 

tov/n ; 
A handshake, a cocktail, a smoker, and then 
Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. 

There flowed in his brains the blue blood of the 

south 
And a cynical smile curled his sensuous mouth; 
But he quoted from Lanier and Poe by the yard, 
But his purse had been hit by the war, and hit hard ; 
I felt that he honored and flattered me when 
Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. 

I wonder that never again since that night 
A vision of Billings has hallowed my sight; 



THE MIDWAY 137 

I pine for the sound of his voice and thrill 
That comes with the touch of a ten-dollar bill; 
I wonder and pine, for — I say it again — 
Mr. BilHngs of Louisville touched me for ten. 

I've heard of what old Whittier sung of Miss 

Maud— 
But all such philosophy's nothing but fraud 
To one who's a bear in Chicago today, 
With wheat going up and the devil to pay, 
These words are the saddest of tongue or of pen : 
"Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten." 

The shades of night were falling fast 
As through the World's Fair portal passed 
A certain Adlai Stevenson, 
Whose bead-like eyes were fixed upon 
The Midwav. 

He was the very favorite son 
Of proud, immortal Bloomington; 
And hankering for forbidden joys, 
He pined to whoop up with the hoys 
The Midway. 



138 INTER-STATE COMMERCE 

*'Try not those fakes," a stranger said, 
''Unless you're hankering to be bled!" 
Alas, these words were all for naught — 
With still more fervor Adlai sought 
The Midway. 
"Beware the divers games of chance. 
Beware that Street -in-Cairo dance!" 
All in vain this warning cry, 
Old Adlai whooped, as he sailed by, 
The Midway. 

But why pursue this harrowing tale? 
Far better we should drop the veil 
Of secrecy before begin 
His exploits in that Vale of Sin, 
The Midway. 



f ntet^State Gommetcc 

In 'eighty-six right evil tricks 

Reformers sought to play; 
They formed a pool wherewith to fool 

The state that had to pay. 

With divers winks and smiles, methinks^ 
One Rees the pillage planned — 

And as for Clen (that best of men) J 
He took a quiet hand. 



INTER-STATE COMMERCE i39 

He argued so (by which you'll know 

A godly man was he): 
*' Quite different things are pools from rings — 

This pool's the thing for me! 

''For years I've been a foe to sin — 

I find it does not pay; 
I'll share your guile a little while, 

But am not in to stay! 

" When breezes blow and blasts of woe 

Seem threatening every minute, 
I'll skip the game to save my name 

And swear I wasn't in it!" 

'Twas thus to each his cautious speech 

In godly phrases ran; 
*' Whate'er betide," the others cried, 

We'll "save the honest man!" 

The crash has come and there are some 
Who thinks that Clen's to blame, 

But Rees et al, defend their pal, 
And bless his righteous name. 

And Clen denies and rolls his eyes 

In fashion most dejected; 
It's hard on Clen when godly men 

Are not from wrath protected. 



jfisbetman Jim's Iki^s 

Fisherman Jim lived on a hill 

With his bonnie wife an' his little boys ; 
'Twuz '* Blow, ye winds, as blow ye will — 

Naught we reck of your cold and noise!" 
For happy and warm were he an' his, 
And he handled his kids upon his knee 
To the song of the sea. 

Fisherman Jim would sail all day, 

But when come night upon the sands 
His little kids ran from their play, 

Callin' to him an' wavin' their hands; 
Though the wind was fresh and the sea was 
high, 
He'd hear 'em — ^you bet — above the roar 
Of the waves on the shore! 

Once Fisherman Jim sailed into the bay 
As the sun went down in a cloudy sky, 

And never a kid saw he at play, 

And he listened in vain for the welcoming cry; 
In his little house he learned it all. 

And he clinched his hands and he bowed his head — 

"The fever!" they said. 

140 



FISHERMAN JIM'S KIDS 141 

'Twuz a pitiful sight for Fisherman Jim ' 
With them darlin's a-dyin' afore his eyes, 

A-stretchin' their wee hands out to him 

An' a-breakin' his heart with the old-time cries 
He had heered so often upon the sands, 

For they thought they wuz helpin' his boat ashore. 

Till they spoke no more. 

But Fisherman Jim lived on and on, 

Castin' his nets an' sailin' the sea: 
As a man will live when his heart is gone 

Fisherman Jim lived hopelessly, 
Till once in those years they come an* said: 
** Old Fisherman Jim is powerful sick — 
Gk) to him quick!" 

Then Fisherman Jim says he to me: 

"It's a long, long cruise — you — understand — 
But over beyont the ragin* sea 

I kin see my boys on the shinin' sand 
Waitin* to help this ol' hulk ashore 
Just as they used to — ah, mate, you know! 
In the long ago." 

No, sir! he wuzn't af eared to die; 

For all night long he seemed to see 
His little boys of the days gone by 

An' to hear sweet voices forgot by me ; 
** They're holdin* me by the hands!" he cried. 
An* so he died. 



IRcp* Sam Small an^ IRep. Sam Bona 

I. 

** I'll never chaw terbacker — ^ncv 
Nor smoke, nor snuff at alll 

Folks say it is a deadly sin," 
Says Rev. Samuel Small. 

II. 

But lo! as if in answer to 

His partner's chiding tones: 
"I shaw terbacker, and I smoke I 

Says Rev. Samuel Jones. 

III. 
But seeing how the Rev. Small 

And other folks did scoff 
Because he used the filthy weed, 

The Rev. Jones swore off. 

IV. 

So glory be to Small and Jones, 

Those best of preacher-men, 

And let us pray that, since they're off, 

They'll not swear on again. 
142 









LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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